Luciola
by WhimsicalPasquinade
Summary: For her, pretending that she hasn't gone mad yet was somewhat entertaining, that little shred of sanity'. A take on Willow's origin, rated T for slight violence and certain implications.
'Great wits are to madness near allied' - her psychiatrist always muttered the same phrase as he almost aggressively thrust the needle of the syringe into the glass vial and watched it thirstily suck in the crystalline narcotic liquid inside.

She established the futility of any kind of resistance later than most of his patients. It amused him however, made him enjoy the whole process even more. Pale softness of bruised skin, brief sharpness of the needle gliding in, one push of a finger and the unruly burning fire in her hazel eyes dwindled to a capricious flame. The young woman's grip on the arm rests would lighten, revealing the grooves her nails left on the leather. What tortured her most was the languor of the process, how much pleasure he took from seeing her slowly burn away with the briefness of a candle standing in the wind. How there was no one who would listen if she, a young woman labelled 'psychotic bitch', told them that she was repeatedly harassed and humiliated by the head psychiatrist of Weybridge mental asylum, a well known professor and graduate of the country's leading university.

Willow was often kept awake by those memories, out here among the savage dangers of day and the much dreaded darkness of night. Curled up on her makeshift straw roll, the young woman hungrily stared at how the soft glow of the fire she coaxed awake almost flirtatiously danced over the freshly added logs. The thick smoke hypnotized her, stung her nose and made her eyes water, in a way it added even more charm to her passionate love for the element. Willow let the bittersweet aroma of the burning wood from the young pine tree envelope her, make her long inky locks and crimson blouse full of the smell. Moments like these made her almost...happy to be alive.  
She often asked herself if she really desired to return, in case of such an opportunity appearing. Out here there were no endless bottles and pills, no rough hands pulling at her clothes, no accusations from a misunderstanding society who failed to see the true beauty of a newborn fire which just had its first breath of air.  
This new world carried its own horrors, most often in the forms of venom dripping spiders and feral hounds, yet how delightfully brimming it was with things to burn!

Willow began to experience a strange sense of something between ardour and euphoria the more she let herself sink into the peril of this enigmatic place. For her, pretending that she hasn't gone mad yet was somewhat entertaining, that little shred of sanity. Spears would get sharper each time the previous one snapped in half from the force of a battle. Her arms and skirt would get splattered in the creature's scarlet gore, almost scalding hot as she plunged the weapon back and forth, swiftly turning away from the hound's razor sharp whites, snapping at her and glistening with saliva.

'If they considered me mad, then why not be the most insane I can manage to become' Willow told herself, chuckling melodically as she curled her legs up closer to her chest, the straw of her small mattress snapping softly in the silence of the night. She knew Maxwell was watching, she was a marionette in this wilderness, his marionette.

He showed up abruptly, that fateful night when she was spending her last hours in the mental institution.  
'He is simply a hallucination', she remembered telling herself, 'the old bastard's sadism really took over and he definitely gave me an overdose' as she observed the dapple slender gentleman serenely let the ash from his cigar drop on the tiled floor, his steel gray eyes glinting.

-'Nurse Windsor will be absolutely outraged by that tomorrow' Willow whispered, eyelids still heavy from the tranquilizing drug as she nodded at the fallen ash. She chuckled recalling it now, finding it amusing how of all the things she could have said to the unearthly being that just appeared in her ward she had chosen to say that.

-'I do believe it would matter very little quite soon' he smiled, his voice so deep, so rich and velvety. It made her think of plum wine and regal clothes.

'A beautiful, youthful creature as yourself', he continued after a short pause 'surely you'd rather be away from this dump of broken souls? I can grant you that freedom. Moreover, you will receive gifts that your heart has desired most for such a painfully long time. How does a world you could drown in fire sound like my dear?'

There was little hesitation left in the young pyromaniac's soul. Weak to utter exhaustion from the drug, with bruises blossoming like peonies on the ivory of her skin, all rational thoughts were left behind.

With the pact made, Willow's thoughts instantaneously became sharp and gritty, she found that a fresh scarlet blouse and a flowing dark skirt replaced her hideous hospital garment. Something heavy and cold was pressed into her hand. Willow would have recognized that weight and texture anywhere. Her lucky lighter, with the delicate pale design of a daisy gracing its side. The young woman felt tears well in her eyes as she lifted the lighter to her mouth and gently pressed her lips to its cool side. It has been way too long since she last felt its comforting weight, with the life of a fire buzzing in its belly, ready to burst out.

That night the building turned gold and amber, curtains and endless paper documents catching fire with astounding rapidity. Nurses were rushing patients out, white aprons flailing in the heat. The psychiatrist awoken from his peaceful slumber by violent roars of the growing flame beast was desperately gripping to the edge of his desk, gagging and coughing as he tried lifting himself up to leave. It would have taken mere moments for the fire creeping through along the corridor to engulf the room and he was certainly not planning to stay for a rendezvous with it. He froze as he saw her, stepping through the growing flames and running her slender fingers over the burning wallpaper with tiny flames curling around them like spun sugar. She looked almost infernal, untouched by the fire around her, a breathtaking witch with a ruby blaze in her eyes, gazing into his revealed soul.

'Willow...how?' he had managed to croak, as she swiftly took the door key from his desk and lazily watched the flames as they were about to begin to eat at the hem of his trousers. The doctor looked almost pitiful, the young woman decided, as she watched him chocking on the smoke, gasping like a dying fish thrown out onto land during a storm. She had turned to the two large heavy doors of the entrance to the office and began walking out, calculating how little time it would take for the room to become completely engulfed.

Before shutting the doors she glanced at him, lying there and yelling obscenities in a fury which were occasionally disrupted by strangled coughs as he promised to have her every bone snapped with her savagely beaten to death the moment he would get out.

'There would be no need' she had smiled sweetly, watching him begin losing consciousness.  
'Oh and Sir, before I forget-' she threw him a playful glance, 'when you'll reach hell, do tell them that Willow sent her warmest regards' the woman purred as she shut the door and turned the key with a click. With almost inhuman screams of her torturer still ringing in her ears, she was pulled down into an abyss by shadow apparitions resembling hands, their claws clinging to her skirt, darkness welcomed her into its open embrace.


End file.
